


A Violent Need

by creepymura



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Car Sex, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-22 16:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14312331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepymura/pseuds/creepymura
Summary: It's probably not best to be alone after dark. Especially when you dress so nicely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second person, waylon's pov

The city isn't what it used to be.

A slew of unsolved grisly and gruesome murders, talks of abduction and kidnapping as normal and plain as everyday gossip, a myriad of suspects circulating local news but a lack of evidence to put anyone away for good. And a police department that did nothing to settle any of the terrified townspeople, not even an enforced curfew for those who wanted just a little bit of security. 

Just being outside was a thrill to you now.

It's exhilarating in a way you can't really describe.

Just walking around the city gave you a rush of excitement that you wouldn’t be able to explain to anyone if you tried.

You're not dressed in a particularly exciting way but you know you're getting attention, even if it's just because you’re outside by yourself.

A woman's plaid night dress, grey and black, a long black coat that reaches your knees, black combat boots that are as old as you are. Bare legs despite the weather, clean shaven because you liked the way it made you feel. A burning cigarette hangs from your black painted nails, occasionally lifted to your lips for a quick drag.

You’d even started to like how your hands looked when your nails were painted, made an excuse to do it as often as you could.

You'd gotten good at it too. Your hands didn't shake as much as they used to. Barely a spot out of place.

Slender, dainty. Almost feminine.

Though you didn’t really think of it that way anymore, despite how much you used to. Things weren’t masculine or feminine anymore, they were just your’s. It’s almost a relief to not restrain yourself like that, like you used to. To let yourself have a bit of freedom.

You smirk to yourself, lost in thought, gently tapping ash from your cigarette, sitting back on the bench that's cold against your thighs and watching the world silently pass you by.

It's a Friday night, nearing one in the morning.

Students walk home drunk, weird older men stumble around the streets after spending much too long in bars. Always in groups, never alone like you were. People only throw a glance at you before moving on. Thinking it best not to stick around, just in case you were dangerous.

You feel almost powerful.

Like the night, like the city, belongs to you and only you. 

No-one was going to take that freedom from you. Not now, not ever.

A man stops in front of you.

Broad shouldered, larger and taller than most, almost dangerous looking in the low light so very much your type. He's dressed in a good three-piece suit and not nearly dishevelled enough to look like a business man fresh out of a bar at closing time. His lips, quirked with an almost dimple in the corners, are full and you can't stop looking at them.

When he looks you up and down, there's a look in his striking blue eyes you can recognize, though he carries it with a little more pride than most other men you see it in.

It's almost subtle.

"Can I help you?" You ask him, not even trying to hide a gruffness to your voice that makes him blink in surprise. You wonder if the cross-dressing and long blonde hair had confused him for a moment, but he hasn't thrown any slurs at you yet.

Can only be a sign of good things to come.

"You know, a lady really shouldn't be out this late by herself." The stranger says, his voice smooth and so perfectly masculine, though a slightly raised eyebrow convinces you that he probably isn't all that concerned for you, and more amused if anything.

"What makes you think I'm a lady?" You ask, your own eyebrow raised as you take a long drag from your cigarette, deliberately crossing your legs to play on his assumptions of your femininity.

“Well, perhaps I'm traditional, but I suppose I just assumed." He replies with a coy smirk. "I apologise."

"You know what they say." You breath out your smoke through your nose. "When you assume, you make an ass outta you and me. But I've heard a lot worse before so you're forgiven."

He chuckles, deep and dark and perfect, and you find yourself smiling.

“Would you mind if I kept you company?” He asks, as he gestures to the free space next to you.

“Why would I mind?” You shrug.

“Call me a gentleman.” He smiles again. 

You move up a little to accommodate him and he sits beside you comfortably. His body is broader than you expected, he easily takes up the majority of the bench and one of his shoulders brushes against yours. You're not sure you mind too much about the sudden contact.

"It is dangerous to be out here by yourself this late though." He starts, crossing his legs and looking over at you. "All these killings lately. The city isn't as safe as it used to be."

"I guess I'm a thrill seeker." You throw him a little grin that makes him chuckle.

"You're very beautiful." He says without any kind of hesitation, taking a silver case from his coat pocket, still looking at you. His coat is as nice as his suit, and matches it down to complimentary fabric patterns. "It almost feels like I've seen you before." A row of neatly packed cigarettes line the inside of the case. They look expensive.

"Maybe you have." You reply, watching as he lights one with an equally expensive lighter. Engraved initials on the side. E.G. You wonder what they stand for. "I walk around the city at this time most nights. You could have spotted me before."

"Any reason you walk around in a nightgown at one in the morning every night?" He asks with another smirk over his cigarette, tucking his lighter away and giving your body a quick, but not subtle, once over.

You're not surprised, you've gotten worse reactions. From worse looking people too.

"Why, can't a gal walk around in whatever she wants without any kind of purpose any more?" You smile to yourself, looking back out across the street, pretending to ignore the way he looked at you. The way so many men had looked at you before.

You sort of liked it. Especially from him.

"How very poetic of you, darling." He says, exhaling his cigarette smoke with another perfect chuckle. The use of the pet name doesn't go unheard and it makes something inside you twinge with a hot kind of pleasure that you so rarely received from strangers these days. “I suppose that makes two of us without any sort of purpose tonight then.”

You're not subtle in the way you eye him up either.

You want him to fuck you until you can’t walk, and you're sure he can probably tell. Hopefully, he wants the same.

"I'm not wearing any underwear." You say bluntly, inhaling another drag from your cigarette and uncrossing your legs, spreading them apart in an almost masculine way. Feeling a slight breeze caress your thighs, the weightless nightgown doing nothing to feel even remotely protective. It’s exciting

"A lady definitely shouldn't act like that." He repeats himself, his voice almost light and humorous if there wasn't something dark and desiring underneath it. Something else that drives you crazy.

"What makes you think I'm a lady?"

-

He has a car parked not too far away from where you sat. He doesn’t want to do it out in the open.

Spoilsport.

It's nice, sleek and shiny black even in the lowlight of the night sky, and even as someone who knows shit all about cars, you know it's probably expensive, much like the rest of his possessions. A high-end brand that demands to be taken care of.

The seats he fucks you on are very comfortable. Probably leather or suede or some other material that was difficult to get cum stains out of.

You rationalised it as a parting gift for him to remember you by.

His dick fills you beautifully.

Definitely the largest you've had in a while and the aching stretch feels perfect after wanting it for so long.

You can't help but grin with a manic sort of pleasure as your hips rock desperately against his, eager to take more and more of it with every second. Not wanting to wait even a moment longer.

His fingers curl tight in your hair, gripping it hard as he pounds into you harder. His free hand grips your skinny hip so hard you can feel bruises already swelling the skin, but it feels so fucking perfect, you don't ever want it to stop. Even the thought of him bruising you, leaving marks on you, makes you hard.

He fucks like there's something wrong with him.

Repressed anger issues that he took out on bugs and stray animals, another personality maybe. A psychotic breakdown and a restrained murderous rampage bubbling away underneath the prim and polished surface, one of those options. It makes him particularly rough and brutal with you though, so you don't really mind too much.

Even if a future serial killer is fucking you.

Not your problem.

He mumbles delirious dirty talk in your ear, alternating between calling you a "good girl" and complimenting you on "how well you take my cock" and so on, and "dirty whore," filthy little minx," and telling you that "taking my cock is all you're good for, isn't it, slut?"

All you can do is moan in agreement and whimper for more, unable to scream his name, and twisting in his grip so he pulls your hair harder, making your scalp ache and painting deep, purple bruises in your skin.

He nips your ear lobe, digging his teeth into the soft flesh and running his tongue along your silver studs as he fucks you with particularly hard thrusts, skin slapping against skin. Drinking in your pained moans and only pushing in deeper.

Relishing in your torture, your blissful pain and excruciating pleasure, and only wanting more.

You’re so turned on that it hurts.

"Surely that's not too much for you, darling." He whispers, and his voice (and use of condescending pet name and beautifully rough vocal tone) does things to you that you can't even describe. "A well-used whore like you should be able to take much worse than this. Or am I being too rough, hm?"

The grip in your hair loosens and he strokes down your neck gently. Your hair pools back down your shoulders in the feminine way that you always liked. Burying his nose in your hair, he inhales deeply as his thrusts slow down, barely enough to keep you satisfied, but deep enough to leave you wanting more.

"You're absolutely intoxicating." He breathes, the hand on your hip drifting up your front and groping at your non-existent chest. "Good girl, my beautiful, pretty girl. Take me so well."

Maybe the two personality thing wasn't all that far from the truth actually.

You can't tell which side of him you like more as your own hand drifts down to your aching dick, stroking over it as he kept fucking you, only getting harder and faster with each passing second.

It’s relaxing, in a funny sort of way that you hadn’t anticipated.

Almost as if your brain, any cognitive thought that told you this could be a bad idea, was pouring out of you with every moan and gasp.

When he shoves you back down against the seats roughly, his hand back in your hair and your face forced hard against the cushions in a less than loving way, you can feel the soles of your boots push against the car door. Probably scuffing the leather interior, but like you gave a shit about that.

Your dress is open, so far down your shoulders that it restrains your arms a little. The very idea of restraint makes your dick ache harder. 

He's fucking you with a ferocity that makes it hard to breathe, let alone think about what you could steal when this is over. Just feeling his thick, heavy dick plunge deep inside you, rubbing against your prostate and teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves so aggressively, makes you see stars and get closer and closer to the edge without even having to touch yourself first.

It's almost impressive.

Your hips rut desperately against the car seats though, trying for even the slightest amount of stimulation, though you get nothing.

That's probably how he wants it though. To have all control over your pleasure, to get you off with just a dick up your ass.

Even that idea turned you on a little though.

"You're mine." He growls into your ear, and just hearing something so possessive from the stranger makes you moan helplessly in agreement. "Every part of you belongs to me." Accentuating his point with a particularly harsh slap to your ass that makes you yelp with pain, though your head is swimming with white-hot pleasure. "Can you say that for me, baby girl? Or has your pretty little head been filled with so much cock that you can’t even think anymore?"

You don't even bother to try and make words as you gasp in pleasure, nodding your head and feeling him thrust deeper and harder inside you.

He's getting erratic though, no real rhythm or pace to his fucking anymore. Must be as close as you are.

"Hmm, that's what I thought~" He purrs, running his tongue over the shell of your ear again, and it takes every ounce of control you still have to not cum there and then. Just trying to hold on for yourself, if anything else.

"Such a pretty whore, aren't you? Shame you haven't got a brain to think for yourself anymore, isn’t it?"

"But I'll take care of that, don't you worry. I'll take care of everything for you. You don't have to be alone anymore.”

"You'd make such a beautiful bride, darling."

You see white when you're finally pushed over the edge. And you're pretty sure he does too.

You decide to steal his wallet when he finishes inside of you, biting down on your shoulder, hard enough that it’ll leave a delicious bruise for the next few days.

It might have felt good, amazing even, but that didn’t mean you didn’t expect something in exchange.

He offers you a ride with an almost fake looking smile, but you turn it down, saying you don't live too far so he doesn’t get worried. Really you don't want him knowing where you live once he figures out you nabbed his wallet, but he doesn't have to know that.

You get out his car, throwing on your coat and stuffing the stolen object deep into your pockets. You look over your shoulder to blow a kiss over to him, which he seems to appreciate.

As you leave the car park, you button up the front of your night dress idly, feeling the remnants of him leak down your thighs, and it gives you an unspoken thrill as you start your walk home.

You lit a new cigarette as you walked, opening the stranger's wallet and flicking through it.

A decent amount of cash, several credit cards and various forms of identification, words and numbers illuminated by street lights and the burning ember of your cigarette.

Eddie Gluskin.

You're sure you've heard that name somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i walked to a mcdonalds at 1am with no knickers on and that's what inspired this thing
> 
> i'm writing more of this, i just wanted to write smut first lol
> 
> didifrightenyou.tumblr.com  
> ray x


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second person, from waylon's pov

You hadn't expected to be woken up with a start with Miles playing heavy speed metal at its highest volume in the kitchen, loud enough that it shook apart the walls of your shared apartment and probably disturbed your neighbours.

But for some reason, you weren't at all that surprised by it. You never were with Miles.

"Morning!” He shouts over at you, instead of apologising for waking you up so abruptly. Typical for him. “I'm making eggs and rice if ya want any!"

You just groan loudly in response and allow your head to fall back against the sofa cushions (where you must have passed out when your sleeping medication kicked in last night), trying to ignore how loud the music is, and how badly your roommate sings along to it, though his enthusiasm makes up for his lack of talent. Pulling the heavy hood of your coat, which you slept in (naturally), over your eyes and grumbling silently to yourself in contempt.

He doesn't take your (lack of an) answer as a no, as barely two minutes later, his music is turned down and he's placing a plate of eggs and leftover fried rice on the coffee table in front of you. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa and digging into his own plate without another word.

"What time is it?" You murmur groggily, peeking up at him from under your hood.

"Twelve thirty." He says, with his mouth full, pushing more food onto his fork. You supposed you could forgive the music when it was already that late then. When you sit up, you notice that he's wearing one of your shirts. A heavy metal band tee that’s covered with bleach stains from your more clumsy years. No wonder half the apartment complex thinks you're dating. "When’s Blaire got you in today?"

"Three ‘til eleven." You reply, sitting up and rubbing your sleep-encrusted eyes, before picking up your plate and throwing your feet onto the coffee table in its place, shrugging off your heavy coat. “Got me on the evening shift again. Fucking sadist does it just to make me squirm sometimes. ”

You hadn't taken your boots off last night either.

Miles doesn't notice, or if he does, he doesn't comment. Just chuckles at your comment.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s weird like that.” Miles mumbles, spearing a nugget of scrambled eggs and rice with his fork. “By the way, what time did ya get in last night?” He eyes you up curiously with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Don’t think I heard you."

“Mm, about two, two thirty maybe.” You reply with your mouth full. Medication usually made your stomach turn at just the thought of food, but for some reason, you’re ravenous this morning. You must have gotten a good night sleep. “Got held up so I was in a little later than usual.”

“Does it happen to be related to the stranger’s wallet I found in your coat this morning?” He smirks coyly at you, finishing his last bite of food before putting his plate down.

"Why were you going through my coat pockets, Miles?" A frown on your face deepens the more he speaks.

"Answer the question, babe."

You think it’s best not to reply when he’s in this sort of playful mood with you. But still, you can’t help but let the frown fade into a not-so-secretive smile towards yourself, despite what he’s talking about.

But your brief silence seems to speak loud enough when he lets out a delighted laugh of a sadistic kind of excitement only known to him, clapping his hands together. Dark brown eyes shining with a special delight, like a kid on the first night of Hanukkah.

“Oh my god, Waylon!” He grins, hands clasped together. “Are you, for real, a hooker now?” His joy makes your stomach turn with annoyance. Though you’re still smirking to yourself despite everything he says. “Really? Does Murkoff pay you THAT badly that you have to sell your body to pay rent?” He throws a hand up to his face in a parody of outrage. “What would Mama Park think?!”

“I don’t think I would have robbed my first customer if I was a hooker, Miles.” You say, picking up his plate and pacing over to the kitchen to drop the two of them in the sink. “Which I’m not. A hooker that is.”

“But you got laid though, right?” He kneels up on the sofa, his arms resting on the back of it.

“Maybe.” You say, your voice is soft and light as you turn on the tap, letting the water run for a moment to let it warm up, hands lingering underneath the running water. “So what if I did?”

“Waylon! My baby boy, angel, babycakes, love of my life! You’re so cruel to me.” Miles starts, getting up from his seat, drawling out his vowels as he speaks. Just to be particularly dramatic, a pseudo-romantic play between the two of you that no-one else had ever understood since you started doing it in college. “You’re gonna make me so jealous, Waylon. Going out and picking up random guys while your wife sleeps at home, worried sick!” Throwing his hand against his forehead with a gasp that almost knocks him to the floor. “Scandalous!”

You let out a short and outraged laugh, turning to the sink and shaking your head in an exasperated but entertained way, hiding a smile from him by trying to busy yourself with the dishes.

He doesn’t take this as a hint to leave you alone though, as he wraps his strong arms around your waist tightly, pressing his nose in your tangled mess of hair.

Much like the stranger did last night, actually.

It gives you a weird kind of rush in the pit of your stomachs, and all the bruises that littered your skin start to throb at the memory of him inside you again, despite how much Miles was deterring those thoughts.

"Oh, tell me his cock wasn't bigger than mine, baby, tell me it ain't so!"

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that’s the first thing you’re worried about?” You say, your tone slipping into a teasing tone that always wound him up.

“Tell me then, did he fuck you like I do?” He says, a similar edge to his voice that you don’t find the least bit arousing, and neither does he. It’s like a weird kind of parody of the dirty talk of the stranger, and hearing it from Miles makes you giggle like a school boy. Miles accentuates his words with a sharp jut of his hips that bounces off your bony ass, and the action just makes you laugh more.

“I’m not talking about this, dear.” You reply, your voice light and airy and sing-song.

“Did you AT LEAST scream my name when he finished inside you?” He continues, and you can feel his grin against your neck, making you roll your eyes in amusement. “Did you cry ‘Oh, Miles, my one and only love and owner of my skinny ass, please take me now!~’ when he stuffed his fat cock inside you?” He doesn’t do a good impression of you at all.

“God, why does it sound so gross when you talk about it?” You shove him away, but the grin on your face and the giggles from your lips tell Miles that this isn’t malicious.

“Cus everything is gross when it involves you, duh.” Miles replies, and you roll your eyes and turn back to the dishes. You feel Miles tiptoe his fingers across the collar of your night shirt, and prod at one of the visible bruises on your neck, making you squeal and clap a protective hand over it. “He sure did do a number on you though, Park. You’re more of a masochist now than I remember.”

“Then you have a shitty memory.” You smirk, leaning back against the sink and wiping your hands down the front of your nightdress, getting lost for a moment in the touch and memory of the stranger last night. “Even if it was ten minutes in the back of his car, it’s still the best sex I’ve had in like...a long time.”

"I want all the gory details, honey," Miles says, hopping up on the kitchen counter. "No, I NEED the details. I want cock length, cut or uncut, every position, and any kinks that came out and revealed some undiscovered traumas and repressed childhood memories." He mimes unfolding a notebook and places an invisible pen to the palm of his hand. "And go."

"I'm not making a donation to the Miles Upshur Spank Bank today, unfortunately." You say with a slight smile, trying to make the shrug apologetic.

"Boo, you whore!" Miles almost shouts, throwing his hands up in outrage. "What's the point in having hookers for best friends if they won't share any of the juicy parts?"

"I'm still not a hooker, Miles." You say. "Just a boring old slut."

"Yeah, you certainly smell like one," Miles says, with an over exaggerated nose wrinkle. "If you go to work like that, Blaire will definitely think that you're a hooker. Though then again," He taps a thoughtful finger to his bottom lip. "You do that and his sleazy ass would probably give you a raise."

"Yep. Hate that."

-

You shower for a while longer than you usually do. You can justify the extra time on account of your exploits from the night before, but standing under the hot water is undeniably pleasant, relaxing, especially after waiting a while for it.

When you get out, quickly brushing your teeth and swallowing down a miscellaneous handful of pills to officially start the day, you can't help but look at yourself in the cracked, fogged up mirror, frowning slightly at what you saw.

You're a weird looking guy and you're secure enough in yourself to know that.

Definitely not what most people typically pictured when they thought of a gay man (bisexual man? sexually confused ball of gas?) in his late twenties. Everything too skinny, too pointy and gangled to be in actual proportion, a slight beer gut to your belly that you couldn't shift, weird patches of ginger body hair where they probably shouldn't be, dashed scars and freckles covering your too pale skin like white blemishes on ceramic.

Okay looking shoulders up though, even if you needed to re-dye your roots.

You had that going for you, at least.

You wipe a hand across the steam covered mirror and make a face at yourself, sticking your tongue out and examining the slowly healing piercing scar with a frown. You miss having it in there. You miss flashing it at people and surprising them when they look at you for too long.

Maybe if you cared a little bit less about your job, you'd put the stud back in and tell Blaire to go fuck himself if he mentioned it again. But he was already on your case enough with everything else, looking for an excuse to fire you, even without the body modification and slight interest in cross-dressing clogging your internet history on the work server.

Best not to annoy him with another facial piercing, you think.

You wonder for a moment if this was what you had planned for yourself, when you were a stupid kid in college, playing video games when you should have been studying, going to concerts that made your ears ring for weeks, piercing whatever flesh you could find and staying out too late on nights before big exams. Coding and programming games and projects with your friends every weekend to just end up working for a shady company and a boss who hated your guts and reminded you of his hatred at every moment of every day that you were there.

You wonder if this is the best that life could get for you.

You sigh to yourself thinking about it, pulling your still damp hair from the shower back into a low ponytail and grabbing a pink hair elastic from the sink to tie it up with. You don't even try and style it anymore. Gotten too long and too hard to manage anything that looked even remotely good.

Try not to pay attention to the orange bottles of pills that sit beside your collection of hair elastics.

Just pretending to be normal, well adjusted, healthy and happy, for just a moment.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, before leaving the bathroom to get dressed for the workday.

-

When you walk back into the living space, fully dressed and almost an hour closer to when you’ll have to leave the apartment, Miles is still cross-legged on the sofa again in the same clothes, looking down at his laptop and trying to pretend he's working.

He's not convincing you, though he barely manages to convince himself.

"Are you wearing a woman's jacket?" He asks you with a raised eyebrow when he looks up at you.

"No, I'm wearing my jacket." You reply, pulling it tighter with an eye roll which he just shrugs at, turning back to his laptop and staring at his blank word processor. The little line cursor flashing on the white screen, enticing him to write. "What are you writing about today then, Lois Lane?" Sitting down next to him, peering at his blank screen.

"A piece for the local newspaper on the disappearances lately." He mumbles, idly tapping his lip as he stares at his laptop. "It's hard to talk about though, especially when there seems to be literally nothing to talk about. No bodies, no leads, no patterns, no witnesses so far. Not even a shadow on a fucking security camera or something." He starts biting at his nail nervously and tears it off between his teeth. "The police report I got says literally nothing I don't already know. It's fucked up, man."

"Well, that's totally not gonna give me nightmares." You say, cringing to yourself and leaning back against the sofa. Feet on the coffee table.

"Police are talking about a city wide curfew for citizens. Dunno how they're gonna enforce it but-"

"That really does a favour for us with night jobs, huh." You mumble bitterly, grimacing at the very idea of such a thing.

"Waylon, I'm being serious here." He says, his tone stern and that's enough to make you look up at him. "It’s been three months and four people are already missing. This is, like, legit.” His face drops a little as he sits up. “I...don't know if you really shouldn't be going out so late anymore, babe." His expression twists into an emotion you don't quite recognise. Worry? Fear? Feelings not naturally associated with Miles. "I mean, I know I joke about it, but I get worried sick about you when you don't come home earlier. It's scary, Waylon. Really scary."

"Miles." You say softly, touching his hand. "We've talked about this-"

"I know, I know, you need your walks and whatever, anxiety, depression, all that. I get the same shit from your mom every day when you ignore her calls.” He says, flapping his wrist slightly, waving your protests off. “But ya can't really blame me, can you?" His face screws into a somewhat endearing frown. "Seriously, some of this shit is wacked out. People have been saying it's a ghost or something, and honestly, it's not that hard to believe at this point."

You shrug hopelessly, looking down at your clasped hands, just clenching your fingers together.

You wish you could say something that would calm him down, reassure him in any way, but nothing comes to mind. You can't argue with him, you know that, but he can't win either. And he’s known you long enough to not push something like this too far.

He just sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and turns back to his laptop.

"Just...don't be stupid, okay?” He says, his hand dropping. “I mean, I pay your phone bill for a reason, can you use the fuckin' thing maybe?"

You nod in agreement with him.

"And don't talk to strangers." Miles continues, and you keep nodding, though his suggestions make you smile. "Or accept rides from strangers. Or money or anything. Actually, just don't look anyone in the eye when you're outside, okay?"

"Okay." You say, standing up and kissing his head, stroking your fingers through his curly locks. “You know I’m older than you, right? I might be able to look after myself.”

“Impossible.” Miles replies, kissing the inside of your wrist sweetly, nuzzling the scars that littered your skin. “But I like looking after you. Wouldn’t stick around if I didn’t.”

“I know.” You say, turning away from him to pick up a pair of battered converses that you deemed more work appropriate than your army boots. "I should probably go to work. They'll kill me if I'm late again.” Standing on one foot to pull on one of the shoes. “Will you be up when I get home?"

"No promises." Miles says, typing a stream of words on his keyboard as you slid the other shoe on. "Send my love to Blaire in the form of a middle finger, please?”

"Will do.” You say, pocketing your wallet and keys from the kitchen counter and picking your coat up off the sofa. "Seriously though, Miles, try and get some work done today? Like, if we’re late on rent again-"

“Babe, I swear, I’m gonna hit something juicy soon, I can feel it.” Miles insists, still rapidly typing at his keyboard. “Or I can just use the police files I already have to churn something out for the paper. Either or, ya know.”

“Oh, actually, that just reminded me.” You say, leaning against the door frame in a moment of silence. “So, your police files. Could you, like, have a record of anyone in town and have stuff logged into your system?”

“Yessss?” Miles drawls, glancing at you over the top of his laptop. “Why?”

“Well.” You start, playing with your fingers. “I was wondering if you could look up someone for me.”

“Are you asking me to look up the guy you hooked up with last night, Waylon Park?” Miles glares at you, his expression outraged. Your brief silence is more than enough of an answer for him. “Oh my god, you fucked a crazy, didn’t you?”

“No! I’m just trying to be safe, like you told me!” You insist, making a flailing expression with your hands that Miles can’t help but smile at, despite how irritated he might have been with you.

“Waylon, if I have to tell your mother that your ass got killed by a Grindr hookup, I will bring you back from the dead, just so I can kill you again myself.”

“He’s not crazy, Miles. Or dangerous or anything! Just a little.” You pause for a moment, trying to find the correct word. “Unhinged? Odd? I just want to make sure everything checks out. Ya know. In case.”

“In case, what? In case you see him again?” Miles crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head, an expression that reminds you so much of your mother, it’s a little unnerving to see how well he replicates it.

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Waylon, you robbed this guy.” The stern tone to Miles’ voice is as unnerving. “If you see him again, he’ll probably have you arrested.”

“I like to be optimistic.” You reply with a small grin. “Please, Miles? Please, please please?”

You open your big, brown eyes wide and look at Miles for a few seconds, trying to look as desperate as you felt. Your parents used to call that particular expression your "puppy dog eyes" and you just hope that the look works as well on Miles as it used to on your family.

Miles continues to do nothing glare at you for a little while longer, his expression totally deadpan and the look in his eye questioning why he continued to be your friend. But he eventually just sighs and sticks his hand up, like he was ready to catch something.

"Throw me his wallet and I'll run his details through my system."

You grinned and rushed over to the sofa, putting the expensive wallet in his hands and kissing him, sweetly, on his stubbly cheek.

"You're a lifesaver." You say, smiling against his skin and kissing him again.

"Fuck off, you sap." He tries to shove you away, but you can feel the heat from his cheeks and the grin on his face and it makes you smile even harder. "Go to work before Blaire fires your ass."

"I love you, Miles!" You shout over at him as you rush to the door.

"Love you too, you hopeless slut."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo i said i wanted to do more for this au idea thing. that's what i'm doing. because i finished my last essay for uni today and i got bit by the inspiration bug
> 
> since we had sex in the first chapter, we're gonna take it a lil slow now (it'll be plenty raunchy tho dw i'm a perv too). here's miles!! he's a delightful little shit. also some background on waylon and what he does with his days when he's not walking around in a dress at 2am
> 
> edit: lmao this chapter sucked i just redid all of it WORK
> 
> didifrightenyou.tumblr.com  
> ray x


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second person, eddie's pov
> 
> tw: descriptions of gore, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of stalking (maybe?)

In your mind, killing is much like sex.

It was an indulgence, one you didn't get to enjoy as often as you liked, but savoured the moment you got it.

Something you craved. Not necessarily something you needed, no, but something you wanted so much that it almost drove you crazy.

And really, there was no sense to doing it at all if you weren’t having fun with it.

This is not to say you were sloppy though, oh no, you were far too neat and tidy for that.

You always planned everything out to the most minute detail, from a well-constructed alibi with a bar down the street if you ever were questioned, to what combination of tie and vest you were going to wear when you picked up your next victim.

You always liked to be fashion forward, even in the most grave of circumstances.

You didn't target anyone specific either, didn't want to give police detectives a pattern to follow you with. There was no revenge motive, no personal vendetta, no unresolved feelings that you had towards family members or ex-spouses.

Truly a crime of absolute passion.

And your brain didn't really work in that way either. Never gave you anything direct to work off of, just kicked in whenever it wanted to. Whispering awful, terrible things that would only shut up once you sated your undeniable blood lust.

Tonight's victim is a pretty young thing, short blonde hair, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a bit too scruffy looking to really be of your taste though. It looks like a runaway of some sort, probably wouldn’t be missed by anyone important, they never are. It's eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with dark purple, looks like it could use some rest.

You're happy to give that to it.

People like this always trusted the kindness of strangers.

Lucky for you, you supposed.

Before you could get properly started, you busy yourself with sharpening your weapon of the evening, a twelve-inch bowie knife, mossy oak finish on the handle, the varnish still as glossy and shiny as the day you received it.

One of your personal favourites. A gift from someone far back in your past.

It had gotten dull from misuse though, and you prefer your cuts to be clean and sharp, no risk of tearing flash or providing any more pain than absolutely necessary.

You might have been a sadist, but you weren't a monster.

A crackling gramophone plays a Vera Lynn record to drown out the muffled sounds of your panicked victim.

You're an old soul at heart, your mother had always told you that when you would dance with her in the kitchen to the very same records. You like having to work for your music and you think the quality on the ancient record player makes it sound charming rather than creepy, and you can't help but hum along with Vera as she sings, as you sharpen your knife, as you admire your victim from across the workshop.

You don't know the name of your victim. You’d already disposed of all of it's personal belongings (burning being the method of choice), so there was no chance of you finding out either. You think it's probably better that way. You prefer to have a level of separation.

It looks quite beautiful like this though.

You did always manage to find beauty in even the ugliest of things, concepts, ideas. That’s another thing your mother would tell you.

It’s bound with a myriad of overlapping ropes and zip ties, to keep it still since it struggled so much. Lips sealed with duct tape since it's screaming really did disturb your train of thought and meant you couldn't enjoy your music properly.

And that tended to be a priority when you wanted to have fun with your killings.

Even it's gagged protests are enough to distract you, just a little.

But you wouldn't allow yourself to get angry at it. No sense in wasting energy before you had even started.

You set your sharpening stone down among your other tools, running a gloved thumb along the blade of the knife. Listening to the delectable sound of the sharp steel against leather, allowing a pleased shudder to rip through you.

It had really been worth saving your favourite tool for a special occasion.

The next song on the record begins to play. A choir of singers before Vera starts again.

Absolute heaven.

You find yourself sighing with delight just listening to it.

You turn to it, moving across your workshop with slow, deliberate steps, delicately humming along to the music as you eye up your prey hungrily. A predatory smile creeps to your face before you can try to stop it.

It really is beautiful.

It's cheeks are streaked with tears, eyes even more bloodshot than they had been before and dewy with tears. A stream of blood from it's broken nose (some of them did always try and fight back and it had been no exception) dribbles down it's covered lips. Even now it still puts up a fight though, pulling at it's restraints, desperately trying to rock the chair it's bound to, trying to get away from you. Muffled sobs barely audible with the tape in the way, shaking it's head as you get closer and closer.

Wordlessly begging you not to carry on.

Begging for mercy when you had none to give.

"Really, darling, this is all quite dramatic." You sigh, stopping in front of it, annoyed and almost sounding like you were worn out when you had barely begun. Running your free hand through it's tangled blonde hair and wrenching it's head back painfully, making it yelp and spill even more tears. "Don't you think? You’re making this awfully hard on me."

It tries to voice a kind of protest against it's gag but you don't care to listen, never do. You’re never all that interested in what they have to say to you. They always say the same thing, easier to keep them gagged at this point rather than try and listen.

You run the pointed tip of the knife against it's jaw and along it's throat, down it's frantically bobbing Adam's apple, with just enough pressure to drag a thin, almost bleeding red line down it's pale skin.

The fear in it's eyes is delicious.

You want to lick it's neck, taste the blood, but you manage to restrain yourself. Barely.

"Do you feel hopeless yet? Despairing, perhaps." You ask it, keeping your voice soft (or as soft as you can manage) as you slip the knife further down it's neck, over the collar of it's shirt. You cut through it like it's nothing, exposing more of it's body. A tattoo over it's heart, a delicate silver chain around it's neck. It trembles wonderfully as you trace your knife along the inked lines on it's skin. Eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the knife to be plunged inside."Or do you still think that someone is going to find you? Maybe even rescue you?"

It's much too thin. You can feel yourself frown slightly but you suppose it doesn't matter all that much anymore.

You drag the blade of your knife from the top of it's sternum and along it's collar bone, relishing in it's pained screams, quickly falling into agonised moans and whimpers, straining against the grip you have in it's hair to let it's head hang. Your eyes gleam with ravenous hunger when you see the ruby red blood smear across it's pale white skin, dripping down to paint even more of it's body.

Sharpening your knife really did wonders for your work.

You can’t help but cut it again, down it's neck and between it's pectorals, when the blade slices through it's skin so effortlessly. Beautifully, intricate lines that make you hungry just looking at them.

And oh, how it screams. Absolute music to your ears.

It’s almost addictive. It’s easy to get excited in the midst of things such as this.

"Well, rest assured." You continue, your voice a purr as the grip in it's hair loosens so you can hold it's chin gently, forcing it to make eye contact with you. Wiping the blood stains on your knife against it's trembling chest and looking deep into it's eyes as if you could look straight into it's head. Crushing every last possible hope it could have. "You're going to die here tonight. And it won’t be fast, oh no. Quite slow actually." Tapping the tip of the glistening knife against it's covered lips, as if you’re just teasing it, a calm smile comes to your own lips.

"And I can promise you, darling. I’m going to make you absolutely beautiful."

You grin with sickening delight when it's eyes widen with fright, more tears spilling down it's cheeks. It’s so close to giving up hope, you can barely stand it.

The sweet sounds of Vera Lynn on your gramophone accompany pain perfectly.

"Now." You say, not even trying to hide your excitement. "We continue."

-

Your victim finally dies when the gramophone goes quiet, the only sound in the workshop being your ragged breathing and the crackling static coming out of it’s speaker as the record keeps turning.

There’s a tightness in your trousers, a painful swell in the pit of your loins that throbs far too much to simply be ignored.

You had gotten a little over excited. Even you can admit that much.

It wasn't as clean as your other kills had been, and you'd dragged the teasing torture out for much too long to even be remotely gentlemanly. Far, far too self-indulgent.

By the time you were finished with it, there were far too many cuts and slices out the body for it’s skin to even be the slightest bit useful. Not to mention the tattoos that you generally preferred to avoid, since it was harder to pass off as simply pigskin.

Perhaps you could salvage the meat, though it had been on the skinnier side of your victims. You mentally scold yourself for not considering things better when you had been selecting your prey for the night. For allowing yourself to get so carried away so quickly when you were normally so precise.

You wonder what had changed since the last victim.

Has your mind suddenly been clouded with a bias towards good looking, but visibly damaged blondes? Probably. You can’t imagine why.

You allow around ten minutes for the body to bleed out as much as it can, as you clean your bowie knife. Polishing it diligently and setting it away amongst your most treasured tools. Taking a mental note to perhaps use it a little more often now it had been christened so lovingly.

Before turning to another workbench, this one brandishing your far less loved but more commonly used tools, picking out a particularly gnarly looking bone saw out of your collection. Covered in rust and grime, caked in gore, you can't be bothered to clean it yourself. Still works perfectly well for what you need it for though, so hardly an issue worth worrying about.

You approach the body again, careful to step around the pooling blood that hadn’t quite trickled down the basement drain yet, gently urging it's head up with the blade of the saw.

It barely looks human anymore. That was always a plus. Makes it feel less real.

Blonde hair tinged with red covers it's face, tears mixing with the blood still dripping from the stab wounds and cuts down it's cheeks. You lean forward and peel the tape from it's lips, just out of curiosity if nothing more.

It's a shame really. The body is still quite beautiful despite everything, despite being covered in blood, despite the stab wounds, despite limbs being limp and heavy, it's lips parted in an unspoken protest, never to speak again, let alone scream.

You can't help but think about Waylon as you look at the mutilated mess of a corpse before your eyes.

He had stolen something from you.

Normally, this would have enraged you. You'd killed over far less heinous acts, you’d killed over extended eye contact before, so even you had to question your own thought process as to why Waylon Park had been allowed to live.

Though his behaviour did intrigue you. Enough that you weren't planning for his death anytime soon.

And at the very least you'd managed to steal something from him in return.

Something small, something that had tumbled out of his coat pocket as you fucked him in the back seat of your car. Something he wouldn't have missed.

But just what you needed to learn every detail you needed to about Waylon Park.

A student's identification. From that a full name, a birth date.

No wonder you had gotten so excited.

No wonder your trousers had gotten so tight.

Just thinking about him had gotten your blood pumping.

Thinking of his own blonde hair, long enough to pool down his shoulders, his slender, almost feminine frame. How he looked so pale in the street lights, he almost looked like porcelain. The way his coat, his dress was so loose on him, it practically swallowed his figure completely. The way his body shook as he smoked his cigarettes, as it arched against yours, as he threw his head back and moaned at being called a whore. The shaky smile you could see in the window when he pressed his hips back against yours to prove how much of a whore he really was.

So wanton. And yet so delicate, so gentle.

So breakable.

You want to break him.

You want to see him crumble and shatter and fall apart.

You let out a shuddering exhale, pushing a hand through your hair, probably smearing blood on your skin in the process. Pressing a flat palm against the bulge in the front of your trousers, trying to suppress every filthy thought that stewed in your mind.

You were letting yourself get distracted far too easily.

You had much more pressing matters at hand.

Like just what you were going to do with the body in your possession, if the skin couldn’t be salvaged for pattern making, and there wasn’t enough meat to bother freezing.

Though even thinking about the meat reminds you strangely of Waylon.

Allowing yourself to indulge in a sickeningly sweet domestic fantasy where you, a doting and ever attentive husband cook a delicious meal for your fretting wife, unbeknown to her...him just what he’s truly eating. Perhaps even feeding each other as a means of flirtation.

Though you suppose it’s more appropriate to call Waylon your lover, rather than something so official just yet.

Was he your lover now? Perhaps. Even thinking of it that way brings a boyish flush to your face that you can’t help but smile at.

There’s something somewhat thrilling about the idea of cooking for him. You’d never had that feeling before, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. The thought of being a sort of homemaker had always appealed to you, even though it was never really possible.

You sigh happily thinking about it as you slice through the makeshift binds that keep the body upright with the blade of the saw, quietly humming along to music that no longer played, as you effortlessly throw it over your shoulder and haul it back over to your workbench in preparation for easier disposal. Stripping it of it’s tattered, blood caked clothing and setting the saw down.

Perhaps it’s wrong to think about how much pleasure you would take from Waylon unknowingly eating human meat in front of you. Perhaps not.

Nevertheless, you have a lot of work to do before you can indulge yourself with such pleasant thoughts.

Though really, indulgence was quickly the last thing on your mind when you look down at the messy body, musing to yourself on what to do next.

It went without saying that every serial killer had their preferred method of disposal.

Some liked burning, others, with access to better equipment than you, chose to 'lose' their victims at sea, and there were even a few that still chose traditional, six feet under burial over other modern methods.

And while it was true that you were much more of a traditionalist than others in your field (or so Vanity Fair claimed, at least), and you never really had an opposition to getting your hands dirty in the killing process, you preferred to go down the clean-and-tidy route.

And you were did have a bountiful supply of sodium hydroxide because of it.

If killing was a hobby, the inevitable but important dismemberment, dissolving and disposal of the corpse was a chore.

You pull your leather gloves off with your teeth and quickly sift through your record collection, just to find something to make the whole task that much more bearable.

Billie Holiday. Perfect

You slip the disk out of it’s dust jacket, inhaling the sweet nostalgic scent of dust and your mother’s perfume, and place it on the still turning needle of the record player, before cranking the handle at its side and winding it up.

After all, it was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we've earned our gore warning. i did mention this is a serial killer au, right?
> 
> also this is deeply self indulgent and i apologise for absolutely nothing
> 
> whipstickagocock.tumblr.com  
> ray x


End file.
